The Golden Hind
by MountainRose
Summary: As the Captain, Mustang has a responsibility to his men, as a Gunner, Edward has a responsibility to the Captain, but can either of them survive as religion and war come head to head in sea battles, gun powder and smoke? Eventual RoyXEd, AU.
1. Salting the Powder

Good Day/Night/Morrow to all comers, this is my first Fic, so please bare with me with update schedules and the like. Oh, and I'd love to hear what you think, so please leave me a review!

Onwards;

_Title_: The Golden Hind

_Summary_: Gunpowder and Cannon smoke, as the Captain, Mustang has a responsibility to his men, as a Gunner, Edward has a responsibility to the Captain, but can either of them survive in a world of politics and war?

_Declaration_: I don't own Full Metal Alchemist, you know this.

**UN-BETA'D **If you want to beta, I'd love the help.

A few **nautical terms,** I think these are all of those I use in this chapter. If there's anything I missed, Google has all the answers.

**Gangplank or gangway**: A walkway made of wood with horizontal slats for foot holds that is used to span the gap between the main deck and the pier or quay. Often narrow and dangerous, bouncing up and down as people move on them.

**Before the mast:** In front of the mast, or on ships like the Golden Hind, which have two or more masts, in front of the tallest mast or "mainmast". Often used to mean lower class, i.e. non-officer crewmen.

**fo'csle**: The 'forecastle', a raised platform on the front of the ship, originally used during boarding to gain the high ground on the opposing ship. On the Hind it holds two guns pointing forwards for attacking fleeing ships and contains the 'running powder', gunpowder that's on hand during a battle, and the gunners room.

**Poop deck**: like the fo'csle, a raised platform that is also the roof of the officers' mess. Holds two guns for firing on following ships and the tiller, a long bar attached to the rudder mechanism and used for steering the ship.

**Grog**: watered down rum, common sailors drink.

**Chapter one: Salting the Powder**

Hissing rain formed the back ground to the sound of wet footsteps on the cobbled streets of Portsmouth as the brothers strode through the false twilight. The light of the setting sun had disappeared behind the heavy rainclouds, which had settled over the port city for the past four days, long ago and the docks worked by the light of gas lamps. The tide had dictated that unloading begin at six that evening so the piers where still thick with merchantmen and dockhands long after sundown.

The brothers eyed the chaos critically before plunging into the maze of moving crates, carts and lines of baggage handlers. The smells of tar, wet rigging and salt burnt the boy's noses and the shorter of the two sneezed violently, the hood of his red long-coat sluicing icy rain down his neck as it flopped back.

"Damnit, I hate English weather." He growled, golden eyes flashing as if the sailor who'd glanced at his sudden sneeze was at fault for the English downpour.

"Brother! Are you getting sick? Maybe we should wait..." Edward shook his head as he pulled his hood back up with his left hand.

"Al, if we wait any longer then they'll not have time to get the potash." Al pulled his own dark green hood further down over his face to keep the water from dripping into his eyes, and waited for the next, somewhat acrid comment; "Besides I don't get sick!"

They bickered the rest of the way to the pier where a roundish bosun was overseeing the loading of munitions, supplies and coils of rope so large they took two men to carry. The long, narrow gangplanks bounced in their fastenings as men loaded with barrels jogged up to the high deck of the Golden Hind.

As they came alongside, Al openly gaped at the big two-mast ship with its web of rigging and gold-painted figure head, of a Hind he supposed though it looked to be any old deer to him. Ed, however, was unimpressed. Not only had he seen the ship before but worked on one's larger and more intricate, though merely as a lookout boy. That had been before the accident though; you wouldn't find him running the rigging any more.

"Bosun!" The shorter of the two called, lifting the front of his hood with a hand to let him see the man's face, "we have business with the captain, permission to board?"

The blond bosun turned towards him, shifting a limp, wet excuse for a cigarette to the side of his mouth to speak, "Yer name, kid?" He asked in a bored tone, no one liked working in the rain.

Edward gritted his teeth and was about to launch into a tirade but held himself back with the help of Al's hand on his shoulder. "Elric, Master Gunner." The bosun perked at that, the Hind had lost her gunner to yellow fever not long past, add to that the captain's mention of a "blond, shorty" and you got an easy-to-read picture.

"Permission granted. Watch your way on the gangplank, its slimy and those who ain't used to it'll fall."

"WHO'RE YOU CALLING SO SHORT HE'D DROWN IN A LAYER OF SLIME?!" Al dropped his head onto his palm and proceeded to drag the snarling gunner away from the bosun, to the gangplank.

"Brother, please? At least until we get out of port?" Ed growled himself into silence and stomped up the wet wood. His left leg slipped a little but Al was close and still had his hand on his older brother's collar so nothing came of it.

The deck was wet but its frequent scrubbings had kept it clear and free of slime so the rainwater ran off swiftly, into the scuppers then on into the harbour. Edward stomped over the planking towards the aft cabins, his hood coming down and his heavy, wet braid slapping against his shoulders. Al let him go; just hitching the large duffel bag they shared higher up his back. He was glad that he'd waxed the canvas again before they left, Ed would not be pleased if their journals got wet.

Ed didn't notice his hood come off, his hair was soaked anyway, and banged the door open to the officers mess. It served as the captain's office too and Ed was met by a confusing mess of nautical charts, scribing tools and markers that no doubt meant something to someone. They were spread over the oak table in a thin layer baring a small section in front of the sitting Captain. An eagle eyed woman was looming over him with an unfathomable look on her face that managed to shut even Edward up. He didn't miss the fact that she had no fewer than four pistols on her person. That he could see. He gulped and thought twice about his violent entry. An arrogant drawl broke the moment;

"Elric, shut the damned door." Alphonse shuffled in behind his brother and closed said door against the rain, the Captains' black hair hung down as he unhurriedly signed a chitty for six barrels of limes. The Elric brothers stood awkwardly, Edward cowed by the He's-doing-his-paper-work-so-you-damn-well-better-shut-up look that the woman behind the desk was giving him and Alphonse ever too polite to interrupt. After a moment the Captain looked up at the fearsome woman and handed her the chitty,

"Hawkeye, get that to the bosun, if he's good at his job he'll have them by the tide tomorrow morning." A meaningful look past between them, "Make that afternoon..." She nodded and turned to a small stack of papers,

"Sir, there's a letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury, the seals intact, and I can have the missive to the Earl on his grounds by the morning."

"Wait, how late is it?" The Captain had yet to further acknowledge the Elric's presence but they could see his face by that point. He looked tired and drawn, with charcoal bruises under his coal-black eyes. The set of his face suggested eastern origins, with fine cheekbones and an elegant slant to his eyelids. "Curse you, Hawkeye..."

"Curses on yourself, Captain Mustang." She replied blithely.

Edward was finally getting his sense back and looked ready to go off like his much-loved black powder so Al coughed politely, looking at the deck.

"Ah, you must be Alphonse? Well met. As we discussed, Edward, He's to be put with the ships surgeon." The Captains eyes bored into the elder of the two, marvelling at how little shouting the hot-headed gunner was emitting. "His pay-share will be half that of yours as Master Gunner." That did not seem to please Ed but they had already beaten out the terms of this arrangement, at the cost of much shouting, he let it pass.

"I take it we're going to be in port for a few days yet? There's something you need to buy. The black powder you're loading is of low quality,"

Mustang cut in abruptly, "I am aware of its quality, it's an unfortunate matter of money, though I'd hardly expect someone of your stature to understand the intricacies of running a ship."

Al managed to grab his brother before he scrambled the navigational charts completely. "Who the hell are you calling so-short-he-can't-see-over-the-top-of-a-desk-and-would-be-crushed-by-a-pen?!" Ed's voice accelerated and rose in volume as Al muttered that he hadn't said any such thing. The dusty blond glared accusingly at the Captain, who had a distinct look of smug victory on his face.

"Brother-! Now is not the time!"

When Ed finally calmed down enough to stop shouting he realised that the sleeve of his jacket had fallen down his right arm as he flailed. With a jerk, he pulled the sleeve back down over his hand. Mustang raised an eyebrow at that, when crewmen had something to hide, it was always a good time to start getting nosy.

"What Brother was trying to say is that he can improve the powder," He nudged Ed out of his grumbling slouch,

"Ah, yeah. By bringing the Potassium nitrate content up you can increase the performance dramatically. You can get maybe a third again the number of shots out of the same amount of powder..."

The Captain broke into a grin, "I knew there was a reason I hired you." He filed away his momentary suspicions under 'take immanent action/pester soon'. "How much Potash will you need to modify all of our powder?"

"That depends on how much is in it already. I'll need an hour, perhaps two to calculate the proportions." Ed's voice was nonchalant and cocky, but Mustang let it pass, for now. He pushed his chair back and stepped around the table, his lieutenant standing behind and to his left, to formally welcome them to his crew. He held out his right hand, first to Alphonse, who he noted had a ginger grip, as if he was afraid he would crush someone, then to Ed. The blonde gunner did not raise his hand, looking murderous. The smirk on Mustang's face grew and he snatched Ed's right hand up, holding it by the wrist and pulling the sleeve away from his forearm swiftly.

The next few seconds where filled with a chorus of leather sounds and metallic clicks as four pistols flashed from holster to hand to target. Mustang raised his chin slightly as the gleaming muzzle of Ed's pistol pressed into the vulnerable flesh of his throat. Hawkeye had two of her four guns pointed at an Elric temple and Al's longer custom-made rifle rested on his forearm, aimed at her chest. The metal under the Captain's chin was icy cold and he glanced down at it briefly.

"You didn't mention this." He looked pointedly at the wrist he was holding just above Ed's shoulder level.

"Why the hell should I have told you. It's none of your business." Ed's face was twisted in anger but, unless Mustang was much mistaken, pain too. His breathing was uneven and his gaze flicked between Mustang's face and his own forearm. Lamplight glinted on brass and polished wood. Ed's arm, wrist and hand was surrounded by a complex construction of thin hardwood spars, leather straps and brass hinges which bound his arm to thicker, stronger wooden bars. The glinting wood disappeared up his sleeve and at that distance Mustang could see the outline of the framework up to his shoulder where the wet fabric clung to it.

The damp skin underneath the brace was lined by long white scars and Ed's hand shook faintly in the Captains grip. He let out a sigh and loosened his grip, letting the limb slide through his fingers as he turned it over at the wrist to examine the palm, pulling Edwards white glove off as he did so.

"Hawkeye, stand down..." He muttered softly, engrossed in the workmanship of the brace.

"With all due respect sir, he's _pointing a gun at your head_." He raised an eyebrow at her and muttered something that sounded distinctly like "Women should wear skirts," and she hastily holstered her weapons, brushing her hands down the side of her leggings. Al did the same, once it was apparent that his brother was in no danger. Ed, however was a different matter, he wasn't taking kindly to having his weakness so openly on display. Al looked anxiously between the gunner and the captain, shifting from foot to foot.

"Captain, please, let him go, you're hurting him." Ed's pistol was lowering slowly as Mustangs dark eyes watched the brass joints bend under his nimble fingers.

"It's ok Al... Let him look. It... He's not hurting me." Ed's cheeks where flushing, though the black-haired captain didn't appear to notice. Ed's pistol went back into its holster on his hip and he held his arm out more willingly.

The contraption seemed to be assisting the shredded muscles in Ed's arm, but didn't allow full movement. Roy twisted the wrist gently but stopped before he even got near a normal range because Edward began to tense. The look in those black eyes where telling Ed clearly that he would have to explain this, eventually. The bits of brass under Roy's fingers where icy cold and the wood was sticky with water so he let Edward have his arm back gently.

"Go get dried off and start working with the powder. Report on it when the watch changes." The hidden implication wasn't much hidden, there would be searching questions and uncomfortable moments in a couple of hours. "I shall see you then."

Even Ed knew a dismissal when he heard one, and turned away pulling his sleeve down over the glimmering brass.

"Come on Al," he slipped out of the door, looking almost grateful. Al looked mortified that his brother had just left and pulled of a salute, and tripped over his own tongue while trying to say "Excuse us, sir."

He stepped out into the rain and trotted alongside his brother to the hatch before the mast. Edward grumbled bitterly, about rain, about Bastard Captains and about poor quality powder, all the while fighting a rising blush as the feel of Mustangs gentle fingers over his brace, just brushing his skin, refused to go away.

The little warmth that had crept into them in the officers' mess was soon banished by the sluicing rain and Edward began to shiver, the metal bands on his arm and left leg sucking the heat right out of his body. The ships cannons where mere shadows in the rain, nine on each side, lashed down tight to rings in the deck. Even loading had ceased in the face of the elements, which all sailors had deep respect for. Ed lifted the hatch he'd been shown on his first visit and Al slid down into the bowls of the ship first, Ed soon following. His leg had remained dry and he scuttled down the ladder without too much difficulty, though his right arm was stiff with water and cold and he held it against his chest.

Below deck on the Hind consisted of two levels, a crew deck and below that a cargo-hold. Below that again was the bilges, where ballast kept the ship steady and water collected to be pumped out. The crew deck consisted of two main parts, crew quarters, officers' quarters and the galley. A large firebox with pots and a kettle hanging off a horizontal pole above it heated the space and Ed melted into the warmth with a soft moan. The crew quarters was basically a large deck with a large opening into the galley at one end and a wooden wall at the other which separated it from the officers quarters, which also held the surgeons room and all its horrors.

Due to the rain and the change of shifts most of the crew was packed into the space, some dozing in hammocks slung from the beams and some sitting at the long tables with bowls of something hot and mugs of weak ale in front of them. The bosun who had let them on the ship was standing by the entrance to the galley, talking with the cook, a roundish man with close cropped brown, or-is-that-ginger hair. Ed knew they'd been given the old gunner's quarters but had no idea which of the officers rooms that might be, so he glanced at Al, who shrugged, then at the bosun who would probably know. After a moment he sighed and shuffled forwards, noting to his distinct annoyance that all of the sailors where taller than him, except the ships boy who could be no more that thirteen. Admittedly Ed was seventeen and should take no pleasure in beating a thirteen year old in height, but he still decided that he liked the little blonde.

The bosun spotted the two of them as they weaved their way through the crowded room and shifted his, now lit, cigarette to the other side of his mouth as they approached.

"Get on with Drake then... Tha's the Captain's name amongst the crew, its Latin or some such." He held out a hand, which Al shook, giving him their names as he did. Ed just managed to look pissed.

"Pass us a pot, Heymans. We got us a new gunner." Ed eyed him with suspicion but the bosun just held the pot he was handed by the cook loosely in one hand, picking up a ladle in the other. "Yers might want to cover yer ears." The two Elric's slammed their hands over their ears as he brought the ladle and pot together with a resounding crash. Those in their bunks were jerked rudely awake, apparently under the impression that they were under fire while those eating, drinking and talking half rose from their seats with a roar of swearing and cursing. There was a second resounding crash and silence fell, the brothers letting their hands down cautiously.

"Did you have to use the pot, Havoc?" a small man with black hair and a squint asked in a whine.

"Shut yer face, Fuery. Listen up, the Cap got us a new Gunner! By the name of Edward Elric." There was a sudden out brake of whispers and mutterings as Havoc slapped Ed on the back with a wet sounding thump. Fortunately Ed's ears where still ringing so he missed the mutterings that mentioned his _shortcomings_, he caught some of them though;

"Drake did? Always manages something." "Can't be worse than Armstrong..." "Just a kid!" "wonder if he can hold his drin-smack" that one's neighbour swatted him firmly about the head with a quiet "He's an officer, idiot! Goin after officers's Drakes preogeti perotive... um, job."

Ed really couldn't understand that one so he just ignored them all. They didn't last long as bosun Havoc reached for the pot again and the noise died a hasty death.

"This is his brother, Alphonse. Be nice, never know when he'll have to saw of an arm or leg. Mans a surgeons boy! Tringham, here you go." He gave Alphonse a little push towards the ships surgeon, who shook his hand and introduced himself as Russell Tringham and pointed out the ships boy as his little brother, Fletcher. Edward lent against the wall next to Havoc as his more social brother got talking to the crew. The heat from the firebox seemed to be drying Al quickly, combined with his own body heat, whereas Ed was chilled to the bone, not to mention unnerved by Mustangs sharp eye and his discovery. It hadn't scared him; he told himself resolutely that he had just been surprised by the sudden contact.

A wooden bowl was pushed into his hands by an observant Breda; "Get that in you, looks to me that you've come a long way." Ed tasted the stew gingerly, holding the bowl in his right hand and the spoon clumsily in his left. It tasted to be an unknown meat with lumps of potato and swede in a broth and he was soon wolfing it down. Breda kept an eye on him with an amused look, refilling his bowl when it emptied. After some second or third helping, Edward was warm and his coat had dried out, though his brace had need of oil and care before it would move with ease again, supporting his broken muscles. For now it moved crudely but it was enough, and he had work to be done before finding his bunk.

After a last look at his brother, his innocent eyes laughing at something Russell's brother, Fletcher, has said, he asked Havoc to show him the powder store. It was a closed room on a level with the main deck, where the cannons would be run out, to the front of the ship and as such he had to go out in the rain again, though he manage to duck and run enough to keep mostly dry. The bowsprit divided the room in two, to port barrels were stacked carefully and bound by thick rope and to the starboard side of the bowsprit stood a desk fixed to the deck with a chair similarly attached and numerous latched lockers containing various bits of obscure equipment and data sheets.

He took the duffel bag his brother had been carrying with him and settled it on the gunners' bench, apparently the previous Gunner had known the trade well enough to have the right charts and tables, for which he was grateful. The small precision scales he pulled out of the bag and their box where delicate but essential equipment, as was the selection of ceramic vessels and the grinding mortar and pestle that he unwrapped from their cloth and stowed in the lockers over the desk. Behind him, large barrels of powder lurked like bears and he treated the lantern Havoc had left him with care, aware that a powder store had powder everywhere, not just in the barrels.

He set about his work methodically, weighing some black powder, washing it with fresh water, and then weighing it once more. This he repeated over and over until the weight no longer changed. It took almost an hour and a half to finish driving the solute elements from the powder, by which time he was truly tired, and to determine the relative quantities of Potash that was needed to correct the recipe. At some point Al appeared to pick up their personal effects from the duffel bag, he mentioned that he was working the rest of the shift with the surgeon but knew better than to expect a reply from Ed while he was doing calculations.

By the time he had finished the sound of the rain had softened and there where feet pounding the deck outside once more. He could hear Havocs commanding voice directing the crew with their loads and he figured that Mustang wouldn't mind the information early. The prospect of twelve hours of straight sleep was deeply appealing. He stood slowly, easing the kinks out of his not-quite-all-biological leg, the joints between wood and metal had stiffened with the damp and he'd probably limp until he could get the thing off and oil it properly. He grumbled under his breath, there'd be no hiding that from Mustang, Drake, Captain, whatever the bastard wanted to be called. Still, Ed wanted to get paid and Mustang wanted an explanation, that combined with the fact that Ed was far too lazy to make up a good lie meant that he probably wouldn't bother with resisting Mustangs questioning.

Ed had long since given up on easing the stiffness in his arm, the muscles where just too weak to move the seizing joints, and opened the door with his left hand. He made sure it latched firmly behind him, nothing was worse than wet powder, as made his way through the drizzle to the officers mess/Captains office. He knocked this time, just in case the Lieutenant was there. There was a muffled "Come!" and he let himself in. He had flipped his hood up to cross the deck and now he let it back down again. His golden bangs draped in his eyes and he ran his hand through them to get them out of his way.

Mustang was seated behind the table once more, though the papers and charts had been cleared away into the lockers that where indispensable to a seafaring ship. In front of him was a large bowl of Breda's stew, along with a hunk of bread and a mug of what smelled to be spiced wine. Little wisps of scented steam rose from the mug between the Captains hands as he warmed his palms on the pewter.

"Ah, Edward. You made good your time estimate, a little early if anything." Mustangs face betrayed little of his opinion on this.

Ed shrugged and replied glibly, waving a hand in the air. "It is a boring process, best to make it quick." A little quirk of the lips was all that showed Mustangs amusement,

"Then what news? Will you bankrupt me not two hours from coming aboard?" The amusement was evident in his voice, as was his sarcasm.

"The Potash content is a little over two thirds of what it should be. For the number of barrels you have, six barrels of plain potash should be enough. Anymore and you'd burst your cannons." Mustang nodded thoughtfully, it'd certainly be possible to get that much by their sail-date. He sipped his wine slowly, Hughes, his first mate, would probably even be able to get it for a decent price by flashing the Hind's Letter of Marque. He became aware that Edward was still standing rather awkwardly by the door,

"Lieutenant Hawkeye is ashore, carrying missives." Edward visibly relaxed, "Sit. You have some questions to answer."

**TBC**


	2. Questions

Authors note: Posted in honour of my first ever reviewer, Wolffin! It is much appreciated.

Warnings: minor damnation, secrets

**Chapter Two: Questions **

Roy "Drake" Mustang pushed a second steaming mug of spiced wine across the table to Edward, hoping that the mildly alcoholic drink would calm the seventeen year-old. The movement also gave him time to think, chose the wording for his first question.

"What is that..." He tailed off with a gesture to Ed's right hand, "...contraption for?"

"It's a brace." Edward had predicted this; a captain has to know the condition of his crew, officers more than any other, and had planned on telling him. He hadn't expected to be put on the defensive in such a way, though. "My right arm and left leg where badly injured in an... accident when I was eleven. The braces let me walk, hold things, keep me in work. They amplify what little muscle strength I have left into something I can use." Ed's voice was clipped and cold, as if he were talking about someone else's body entirely.

"Then those scars?" Ed nodded, his right arm twitching with a quiet clicking as memories of the supposed accident flickered in front of him, his brothers blood, the smell of burning flesh and gunpowder smoke, the agonised scream of metal bound wood being shredded. His golden eyes dulled for the duration, until he pulled himself together enough to take a sip of his wine. The hot liquid soothed his throat and its warmth spread outwards from his stomach.

"We used gunpowder to seal our wounds, Al was... He would have died if we hadn't. He made a full recovery in time, physically at least."

Mustang managed to suppress his curiosity, for now he would find out what their physical condition was and the rest... well, if there was time, he told himself.

"How strong is it? Can you haul a mainsheet? Aim a pistol?" Mustang drew himself back to the matter at hand, looking at the faint glimmer of brass on the back of Ed's hand.

"It's strong enough to be a gunner. That is what you want to know, right? Sure I can shoot a pistol, though Al's rifle would be too heavy and I wouldn't be able to pull in a sail. Nor can you send me into the rigging." Ed paused again for a sip of his drink, he was only answering direct questions now, and he was done with volunteering information.

"You haven't used your hand since you came in, why?" Mustang's dark eyes flicked from the hand in question to Ed's face, gauging his reaction.

"The rain gets into the joints and since I was sitting doing calculations for an hour and a half, they seized up. A little oil and they'll loosen up again though." The captain didn't miss the subtle accusation in his answer and smirked a little.

"It's your job, don't complain." Mustang had finished his meal while they spoke and was wiping the last of the broth up with his bread. He used the soggy crust to gesture at Ed as he reprimanded him gently. "How're you going to mix the new powder up?" He said after the crust had been washed down with a mouthful of the spiced wine.

Edward shrugged, brushing his stilldamp bangs off his face again and leaning his left arm over the back of his chair. His coat hung open, revealing his leather vest and a white shirt, its collar held closed by a thin ribbon of the same red as his coat, tied in a lose bow.

"That's the easy part, since you use granular powder. The Potash dust can just be added then the powder poured between barrels to mix it. It's a little touchy and you have to make sure there are no sparks, but it's not too hard." Ed paused to take a sip of his wine, its warmth and the faint alcohol had brought some colour back into his skin, for which he was grateful. "The hard part is doing it without being found out. The powder merchants don't take kindly to fiddling."

Mustang raised an eyebrow and his smirk went up a notch. "We're no strangers to a little secrecy. I didn't wait for the queens' letter of mark to chase Spaniards, you know. My crew will not give us away, and once we're a few miles over the horizon, there'll be no seeing us."

Ed appeared satisfied by this and Mustang wondered if he had had dealings with the powder merchants before. Though, knowing his background as a Tower of London powder-boy, it was probably inevitable.

"Any chance you'll let me get some sleep, _Captain Drake? _Or was it Duck? It's hard to hear the difference" Edward drawled, his tone on the edge of insubordination and unable to help himself. That pulled Mustangs smirk off his face, leaving behind a more subtle and black amusement.

"That would depend on whether you can reach your bunk or not. Should I send Havoc in with a crate?" He sat back and watched with great amusement as Ed spluttered, twitched then took a deep breath.

~~~E~~~

Al looked up sharply from putting away various bottles of medicines in Tringham's stores and sighed as he recognised his brothers' tirade-voice. The surgeon noticed his distraction and cocked an ear to the sound,

"Little bro sure has a big voice..." he observed as he went back to cataloguing the medicines that had been purchased from the shipyard hospital.

"Oh, he's not my little brother! He's a year older than me." Al stepped up the pace and stacked the last bottle of milk of magnesia in its locker. "I should go make sure he doesn't do something stupid." The amused look on Russell's face showed that he understood.

"Go, you can finish tomorrow." He scribbled something in the log book, "Oh! And tell the Shorty that if he needs something for that arm, I'm right here." Al whipped around in surprise, his grey eyes bugging a little. There was a hard glint in Tringham's eye that brooked no argument so Al swallowed his protests and mumbled a "yessir" before leaving. He made note not to underestimate the surgeon in future, the man had sharp eyes and used them.

Ed was stumping down the ladder furiously, a crewman carrying a loudly bleating goat hurrying to get out of his way. How these men could go up and down the steep almost-stairs-but-ladders-really without needing their hands was beyond Al, though Ed seemed to manage just fine and he hadn't been on a ship in years.

"Brother! What happened? I heard shouting from all the way down here." The look of fury on Ed's face and his shaking right fist made it clear. Al knew that Ed's anger was like gunpowder, though, burn with explosive force then blow away as smoke on the wind, so he didn't pursue it any further. He could guess what it had been about in any case...

The younger brother led the way to the gunners' cabin, Ed grumbling all the way, and opened the door. It was a small room with a bed built into the hull-side wall and a few lockers. Someone had strung a hammock up for Al between two timbers and there was a basin of warm water on top of a set of draws that doubled as a dressing table. Ed entertained brief thoughts, as he sat down on the bed, about how coddled some officers expected to be and the absurdity of it, he was sure that Mustang would cure them of that quickly and brutally.

Al slipped out of his green coat and hung it from a peg on the wall before rolling his sleeves up to dip his hands in the warm water. The thin layer of medicinal salts and powders came easily off his hands without clouding the water much. He turned back to Edward as he dried his hands on a small bit of towel to find him undoing the buttons of his shirt awkwardly and with only his left hand. His leather vest hung open, its clasps easy to manipulate with one hand, and his neck ribbon lay in his lap. He had managed the top few buttons, revealing a dart of skin, but he'd gotten stuck on the fourth.

"Damnit Al, don't just stand there!" Ed snapped when he caught the faint flash of guilt in his brothers' eyes. Al flinched and knelt quickly in front of his brothers' knees, deft fingers undoing the buttons easily. As the soft, damp cotton came away from Ed's shoulders the leather straps that held his brace in place came into view. The leather had swollen with water and it dug into Ed's muscles, leaving the skin red and sore. Al's fingers pried at the buckles with difficulty but the straps where too tight and the leather too swollen to pull out of the cinch. Ed pushed Al's hand away briefly and he hunched forwards, pulling his shoulders in towards his chest until there was a little slack in the main strap.

"Try it now..." Ed's eyes slid closed and he gritted his teeth to avoid biting his tongue as Al got the buckle undone and pulled the leather away from his skin; the feeling of blood rushing back into the flesh felt like fire and he twisted his fingers in the sheets. Fortunately Al was experienced enough at this that the other straps came off in moments and Ed was left in peace to regain his senses while his brother pulled his arm free of the brace itself.

Half an hour later the room smelt faintly of a combination of leather, oil and spices and the two sat side by side on the bed doing some serious maintenance. Al would drop oil onto the brass hinges and manipulate them until they ran smoothly while Ed single handedly rubbed saddle grease into the leather. It was something they did every few weeks but they had gotten lax on the journey from London to Portsmouth and Ed was suffering from the lack. As the leather wore, it became less waterproof, as did the joints when they lost their oil, so the brace became less and less of a help and more of a hindrance as time went by so it needed regular maintenance so that Ed could move freely and without pain.

They conversed softly as they worked, mostly exchanging details about their new crew mates. They commented both on the fact that the First Mate had yet to make an appearance, and that the "evil lieutenant" seemed to be filling in. Ed chipped in that it seemed the ship did have one, as there had been no word of a post being open other than gunner.

It was not long after that Al helped Ed into soft sleeping trousers, his right arm hanging limp at his side and his leg moving only feebly, that they climbed into hammock and bed and where almost immediately asleep. Edward thought that someone had opened the door at some point, but he figured it was his sleep addled brain when he looked up and there was no one there.

~~~E~~~

Roy leant thoughtfully against the wall just outside the gunners' quarters, wondering if he'd been right to hire a seventeen year old Master gunner and his taller little brother. True, Edward had saved them a large amount of money by correcting their powder, but could he rely on the volatile blonde to command a gun deck? To hold up under fire?

He shook his head and moved off down the corridor, heading for his bunk for the first time since they made port two days ago. The Elric name was on the books so he shouldn't have any more doubt, he chastised himself, they were signed up for three years and for three years they would stay. He couldn't help the little grin on his face at the prospect, the two were far too interesting to let go. His doubts thus assuaged his mind moved back to the sight that had prompted such contemplation.

Ed had been lying on his left side, facing away from the door, with his golden hair splayed behind him and catching the lamplight from the hall. Roy could just see the side of his face, relaxed in sleep, but what really caught his eye where the angry red strap marks and contrasting white scars that spread from his shoulder. His right arm lay curled protectively against his chest and his knees where slightly drawn up towards them. His mouth was slightly open and his breath just stirred his bangs slightly.

Roy pushed a hand through his hair and grinned faintly; he would be a catch alright... and receive a fair share of glances from the crew for his delicate looks. Ed's foul and insistent mouth would no doubt put them to rights soon enough.

The captain's cabin was rather larger than the gunners, spanning the whole width of the ship, and had a row of windows looking aft that showed him nothing in the midnight darkness. His was the only decent sized bed on the ship, perhaps the equivalent of a small double, and it was built into the starboard wall of the cabin with a heavy canopy and curtains to keep the heat in out on the cold Atlantic Ocean. Along the port wall stood a line of bookshelves with restraining bars against the spines to stop them coming loose in high seas. Most of them where book on navigation, cultures, trade routes and the like, even some Chemic manuals from his brief stint as a Master Gunner, though there were some books which he kept simply for their own merit.

The Archbishop would have been scandalized to find no bible amongst the nautical texts but Roy had used it to prop up a corner of his bed. When the bed leg had been replaced the holy text had been so mangled and unrecognisable that the sailor doing repairs had thrown it into the ocean. Mustang had always thought with great amusement that at least the whales could not be accused of godlessness.

With that thought on his mind he stripped out of jacket, waistcoat and gun belt and fell to the bed in his shirt. After a moment he undid the top few buttons then let the heavy drapes loose to fall about the bed. Perhaps Hawkeye would let him sleep past dawn, perhaps not, but he was ever hopeful for a lie-in.

His hopes were dashed when, at seven-on-the-dot the following morning, after not nearly enough sleep, his lieutenant rapped smartly on the door. He managed to roll over and bury himself in the pillows enough to block out the sound while remaining firmly asleep. This was not met with approval and not five minutes later a rather loud and ominous click made its way through the drapes, managed the pillows and cut through the sleepy fog that Mustang was quite happily ensconced in.

It was a familiar sound and it brought him awake and upright with his pistol in his hands before he was fully aware of himself. While the sight of Hawkeye's pistol muzzle not inches away from his chest was not in itself reassuring, the lack of boarding party and or assassin was and he lowered his gun again. Not much could get him up like the threat of lead shot to the head, a fact which his lieutenant was fully aware of and put to good use frequently.

"Curses upon you, your parents and whatever children you may or may not have in future." He growled rather than spoke, first thing in the morning. He slumped back to sit on the edge of his bed, the pistol getting tossed on the cotton, with his elbows on his knees and his head drooping between his shoulders.

Hawkeye had put her weapon away sometime between his rude awakening and his sitting down again. She gave no visible reaction to his behaviour, merely gave her report with complete composure.

"First Mate Hughes returned approximately an hour ago, sir." Mustang smirked inwardly at that, Hawkeye would have gotten him up when Hughes had arrived, where it not for the Mate's habit of regaling the Lieutenant with stories of his wife and daughter at every opportunity. It would seem she had been so occupied for almost the hour and it gave the Captain much satisfaction and more appreciation for his First Mate. "He brought news of his family and also of the clergy. He refused to tell me any detail on the latter, whilst going into much on the former, while not in your presence."

Mustang chuckled darkly at that; Hughes had an intricate network of political informants which kept eyes on the situation during the Hinds' long sea voyages. It had proved invaluable over the years, often warning the Captain of hazardous or beneficial situations in time to make use of them or avoid them completely. This had all the earmarks of something likely to go sour.

"Have Breda send breakfast to the officers mess, I'll meet with Hughes there. Ask Havoc to step up the procurement of the Potash, I have a feeling we'll be leaving port a little early." She nodded and pulled off a crisp salute before turning and slipping out the door. He watched her go before hanging his head between his shoulders again, who knew when he would sleep more than a few hours together again. Once they were under way it would be different, shifts and routine and no cursed Earls or Bishops or merchantmen to deal with, but for now he had to put up with the political machinations of the English court and rope-sellers trying to bankrupt him.

He hauled himself upright with a sigh, his fitted shirt with its loose sleeves rippling around him and not holding nearly enough heat. He pulled on his blue waistcoat, slung his gun belt over his hips -it was times like these when he was glad for sleeping in clothes that wouldn't rumple- and strode straight out his door, pausing only for his boots. He was aware of the picture he made, ruffled black hair, dark blue waistcoat emphasizing his lithe muscles and his gun belt slung at an angle across narrow hips. It paid to look powerful, dangerous in front of your crew, no matter how loyal they may be. It increased their confidence, morale and made you untouchable, judge, jury and executioner.

As he walked past the Elric's cabin he plotted for a moment about rudely rousing Edward from his bed with a height comment and possibly a glass of cold water but thought better of it. He hated loud noises in the mornings. In fact he hated _most_ things in the mornings. The quiet of the ship was confirming his thought that Edward, Al and probably Havoc and Breda too where still fast asleep.

He was wrong. Al and Fuery where bent over something on one of the galley tables, talking quietly but intently. Very few others were out of their hammocks and were slung like strange insects from the beams, odd limbs poking out at equally odd angles. Mustang's first thought was "damn." His second was rather more elaborate and colourful, but along the same lines, more early risers where just what he needed. Plus Alphonse would never let him wake his brother up with a handful of wet seaweed to the face...

He scaled the ladder to the deck with feline grace and was surprised to feel fresh, early morning sunshine on his face as he pushed the hatch open. Over night the sky had gone from heavy, solid raincloud to thick but broken lumps of grey with patches of brilliant blue between. The sun cast its milky light through one such patch of blue.

Damn. Again. There was a flash of gold to his left and he saw Edward perched on the barrel of one of the cannons, one hand braced in the rigging and the other, his right, holding a chunk of bread, presumably his breakfast. Mustang let the captain side of him observe Ed's broken hand, seeing how dexterous it was when in its right condition. It wasn't bad, but there was a certain lack of finesse in its movement that showed his weakness. A pang of pity caught the Captain by surprise, it was an unfamiliar sensation to say the least, and he squashed it quickly with the knowledge that the fiery blonde would probably punch him out for it.

"Getting familiar with the ladies I see?" The cannons on the Hind where often referred to as "The ladies" or "the nine dancers" because of Roy's broadside-and-run tactics.

"They're good guns, good metal." Ed demonstrated by knocking the barrel with his boot, making it ring. He seemed distracted, staring towards the rising sun, and didn't really notice when the captain moved on to receive the First Mates report. While Mustang was curious about his distraction, he was also itching with nerves, something about the situation didn't seem right and he had learnt to trust his instincts long ago.

Hughes was sitting in one of the chairs around the table, his boots up on said table, when the Captain slipped through the door.

"Maes, good to have you back." He sat down in the large chair at the head of the table, slapping the First Mates boots off the polished wood on his way past.

"Ahh, wish I could say the same, but the look on my little Elysia's face when I left! Ah, my heart is broken!" Mustang's face twitched and Hughes knew he wouldn't get away with it this morning.

"Spit it out, man! You get me up at seven in the goramn morning and you expect me to sit quietly while you _prattle?"_ the first mate gulped and lowered his chin a little, the morning light shone on his glasses, making his eyes unreadable.

"There is word of movement against you amongst the clergy." Well that was to the point, thought Roy. They had been expecting something for some time as Roy's influence in the English courts increased, but where it would come from had been hard to predict. "The Archbishop is wholly too eager for you attendance on Michaelmas, and a number of other captains and Master Gunners have been pressed to attend." He paused to let the pained fury ease off Roy's face; this did not bode well for his standing and Roy knew it.

"Rumour is that Tucker has charges of, I quote, "lying with Man as is an abomination" with which to bring you before God."

BANG.

Roy slammed his fist down on the oak with window-rattling force, a string of unholy curses tumbling from his mouth which alone would have earned his hide numerous lashings. Sailors, gunners and powder-men where an unholy lot, too bathed in the terrors of wild sea's and cannon fire to believe in a benevolent god so to be accused before God by a Master Gunner was especially damning and felt like a betrayal.

He ran his bruised hand through his hair with a shaky sigh a few remaining cursed rolling off his tongue. His expression is hard and unforgiving as it shifts into a smirk;

"For once they come up with accusations that might actually be true..." Hughes breathed a sigh of relief of his own; at least the fiery captain hadn't blown up or shot anything. He had known Roy's preference since they had been cabin boys together and he knew that the captain was far too discrete to get caught by a bumbling fool like Tucker.

"We can beat this, Roy. To fight a lie..." Maes pushed his glasses up his nose, leaving his fingers there, splayed over his face, shifting the reflection to reveal serious, dark eyes.

"You need a truth. I know." The wheels where already turning in Roy's head, "But this time we don't need a truth to fight the lie, but to fight the liar." His expression had moved from fury to calculating in the space of a few short sentences, now his smirk was back in full force.

"I think I might have something you can use." Both men looked up sharply to see Edward outlined in the morning sun in the doorway, his hair shone brilliantly in the milky light and swished behind him as he turned to close the door. "Blame Hawkeye, she sent me with food." He had a tray with a bowl of porridge and plate of bread and bacon. By the way he had his left glove off and was licking his fingers; Mustang suspected that not all of his bacon had survived the trip.

"How much did you hear?" Maes asked, rightly making the assumption that this young man was an Elric, probably the Gunner by the way the captain was looking thoughtful rather than incendiary.

"Enough to know that you "prattle" and that our god-fearing Archbishop is about to have his plans ruined." Edward put the tray down and slid it towards the captain.

"What can you tell us about Tucker, Edward?" Roy's gaze was piercing and Ed felt a shimmer of nervousness that was entirely unrelated to the situation and had everything to do with those obsidian eyes.

**TBC**

**Next chapter: Painful memories and the Gunner's men.**


	3. To Fight a Lie

**Chapter Three: To fight a lie. **

Edward settled down in a chair, resting his elbow on its back and resting his ankle on his knee. His brace clicked gently as he ran a hand though his bangs before letting the hand settle on his lap. It was obvious to the Captain and First Mate that he was preparing himself to talk about something that he wasn't entirely comfortable with.

"We were still studying for the Master Gunners exam when we met Tucker; I was twelve, my brother eleven. He was tasked by the Guild with our guardianship until we passed. Brother... never took the exam because he didn't qualify, though what was different between us was unclear."

Mustang raised an eyebrow at that, the expression of Ed's face told him that not only did Edward know the reason, but it also pissed him off, no end. It was common knowledge, the man was quite well known, that Tucker had had a daughter until some seven years back so it was no surprise that the boys had been bunked with him.

"He had one of the best libraries on powders in London; it was huge and had something on everything, he even had a section on Chinese gunnery. It was an amiable arraignment, he spent the working hours in his basement and we in the library. His daughter was entertained by the family dog... you know, it was normal, peaceful. There was a maid to do the cooking, cleaning but she left not long after we arrived, and Al just sidled into doing what needed doing.

As it turned out Tucker had to submit some research the day after the Gunners Exam, so we saw less and less of him as time went on. We were too absorbed in our studies to really mind but Nina, the daughter, went so quiet... occasionally she would talk about her mother and how she would come back one day, so Nina could show her all the drawings she'd made." Ed choked a little on that, had to pause, and Roy filed "mothers" away under 'things that upset Ed' with a heavy frown.

Hughes was growing increasingly uneasy, the timing fit too well. The Elric's where nineteen and eighteen then, so seven years had passed since whatever incident Ed was leading up to. Seven years since Nina's death. As a father and a husband... this did not sit well with him.

"I passed the exam that round and brother and I were so happy, so elated by being told over and over that I was the youngest ever Master Gunner, that our formulas where above and beyond what people thought possible, that we ran back to the mansion. We wanted to show Nina the watch, with all its engraving and its tiny hands.

She'd drawn us a good luck charm in red crayon... which Al kept folded up in his shirt pocket, and we wanted to thank her. She wasn't home. She wasn't there. She was _always_ there. Tucker fed us some story about her having gone with her mother, but all her drawings were burnt up in an ashtray." Ed had shrunken in on himself, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, pulling his coat tight around him.

"He was so detached, he never made eye contact. We didn't, couldn't believe it. We had worked out that her mother was probably dead, had died four years ago even, and that Tucker couldn't bear to tell her, so his lie wasn't... it didn't even pass our minds to accept it." A mirthless, broken laugh forced its way out of Ed's throat and his pupils had shrunken to pin pricks. "We couldn't have known what was going to happen though, I swear." He drew a deep breath and tried to pull himself together, as a result the remainder of the story came in a broken monotone with a clinical lilt that protected Ed from what he was saying. In a way, that just made it all the more crushing.

"They came and went using a tunnel in the grounds that led into the basement. We found it that night after hearing muffled voices from our room. We where awake discussing Nina and there was this high pitched whine, like a flying cannon ball that came in and out of hearing range.

We were curious, Al looked out the window to see a patch of yellow light in a coppice on the other side of the lawn. We were young and didn't know better so we crept past Tuckers room and out into the grounds. Once we stepped out, maybe before that even, when we opened the back door, we could recognise the whine for what it really was.

We didn't think about it, didn't wait or fetch Tucker, we just ran towards the sound. Al was faster and saw it before I did; he froze like the winter lake. Then I saw and it was all I could do to keep from screaming myself, or being violently sick. She was screaming so hard that her little voice made it past the rag in her throat. She was red all over, red and black with long burns down her arms and back. Her eyes, god, her eyes where the only thing left that wasn't red or burnt and they stared at the sky.

He was pouring gunpowder onto her skin, lighting it, testing it. Curses but it was our fault! We'd told him what we'd done with our wounds, how we'd used powder to close them. He was experimenting on his own damned daughter, for the sake of a research paper!"

"That's enough, Ed, that's enough." He hadn't noticed the tears running down his face or that Roy had crouched in front of him, prying his fingers away from his arms.

"He was burning her, captain! He said the fire would cleanse her, so she wouldn't die. He said... He said she wouldn't be like the others, that she was special..." Ed was shaking violently, feeding back to Roy the excuses Tucker had given them with a _smile_ on his face and his daughter's _blood_ dripping off the workbench.

"ED! Stop, it's over!" Roy's words where getting through to the gunner and slowly his eyes refocused, looking first to Roy's hands where they gripped his shoulders.

"Right... yeah, it was a long time ago..." His conviction sounded weak and he was having trouble pushing the images from his mind but Roy's warm grip was helping some. Out of the corner of his eye Ed could see Hughes get up slowly, his head down to hide the complete and utter rage on his face. There was a rough clinking of glass and he pushed glasses of whiskey into Ed and Roy's hands a moment later. Mustang took a step back and flung the alcohol down his throat, expelling his lungful of air in a rough growl, eyes blazing. Ed followed his lead, though he didn't know what to expect of the brown solution, and found himself hacking and coughing as the stuff burned it's was down his gullet. It did its job though, banishing the horrors from his mind as he concentrated on breathing.

"We'll get him, Roy. We can crush him with this. A child couldn't have brought it before the authorities, but a Captain of Marque and a Master Gunner?" Hughes's voice was rough and growl-filled, "We'll destroy him."

Roy nodded and a grim, determined smirk spread under eyes filled with black fire.

~~~E~~~

Ed slept the rest of the morning, slumped in a corner of the officer's mess. At some point Al had come looking for him and thrown a blanket at him, which he had promptly wrapped himself up in and gone back to sleep, but other than that he remained undisturbed. This had in large part to do with the fact that anyone contemplating waking him up, Hawkeye and Hughes included where barraged by images of their personal effects burning merrily. Add that to the fact that Ed was too cursedly innocent in sleep and he slept the morning away at peace.

Roy, though enjoying the sight of his subordinate with a faint alcohol induced blush and his mouth slightly open, was cursed by his presence. He was loath to move him, but he would be damned if he could get any work done with an angel sleeping in the corner of the room. He was trying though, and was wading through an intercepted letter from the Duke of York to the newly titled Duke of Savoy, when Breda appeared with lunch.

He gladly cast the letter down and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead where a headache had begun to form.

"Thank you Breda," He murmured with his eyes closed as the scent of fresh bread and soup washed over him. "How are our provisions shaping up?" The cook set the tray down on the table and began laying it, the sound of cutlery and plates underlining his words.

"There's certainly enough meat to last the crossing, more than enough if Falman can still fish and man the tiller like he did afore." Roy's stomach was beginning to tell him in no uncertain terms that lunch was late and that it wanted it NOW. "The goat's a mighty fine idea sir, being as it has a kid and all, we'll have milk for all of six months. Even if it will taste like a stable rug." Roy was no fan of goat's milk but he'd be begging for it after three months chasing Spaniards. "We've enough fruit to keep scurvy off for the duration and all. Enjoy your lunch now, sirs."

The plural brought Roy's eyes open to meet pools of molten gold. He didn't yelp. Captains don't yelp, especially not when flaxen haired Gunners pop up across the table from them. Edward had been roused by the delicious smells of venison soup, cheese, and hot bread. Someone, Hughes probably, had ordered four places to be set in the officers mess rather than the usual three, obviously intending to include the Master Gunner; and rightly so, the Captain, First Mate, Master Gunner and the Lieutenant where the four highest ranking officers onboard. On occasion Mustang had included the bosun Havoc, navigator Fuery and the helmsman Falman for strategy's sake but strictly speaking the officer's mess was for officers.

Hawkeye had seated herself to the captains right while he listened to Breda's report, filling in for Mustang as he was too busy avoiding a blush to dismiss the cook;

"Good work, Breda. Talk to Havoc or I if there's anything you need getting. Go get yourself some lunch too." The man pulled of a crisp salute; it paid to be precise when faced with Hawkeye, and excused himself. Hughes let himself in just as he was leaving and sat down opposite the Lieutenant; Ed had already claimed the seat opposite Mustang and had fallen upon the food like he hadn't eaten in weeks. The three could only watch in fascination as Ed tore his way through the food, appearing to no longer need to breathe for surely there was no time to draw air at such speeds. They ate on their own meals with rather more reserved manners, cowed by Ed's display.

They spoke seriously over the meal, hammering out the details of the coming confrontation. Hughes had been digging furiously, his contacts reeling from his confusing mix of grim, serious and 'isn't she pretty?'

The knife Tucker used had been bought from a merchant in London who was willing to testify as to the purchaser. It was a hideous, ornate thing. An intricate complex of circles and arcane symbols, which Hughes had acquired a drawing of, engraved onto high quality steel. On seeing the drawing, Ed paused in his never ending quest to fill his stomach and remarked upon its allusions to chemistry.

"That symbol refers to fuel, carbon, the triangle pointing inwards means that it's an reactant... ah, the serpentine over a five pointed star is a sign of royalty, and those things, and I quote, 'those things in the air of volatile nature by which elements do burn'." He frowned and studied the drawing intently, "And the double circle indicates a complete thesis, and hence ownership of the theory behind it."

Roy had already finished at this point, not consuming half of what Ed seemed to be able to keep down. He was frowning hard at this information, the designs where familiar as they were taught to all gunners in training and he himself had served as such in the past, and yet he was glad for Ed's keen mind in deciphering it quickly.

"In other words, the owner of this seal is a Gunner, and a good one." This they knew, Tuckers status was common knowledge, but presenting it to the people's court would affirm their case.

"It'll be registered then, with the State."Roy was reluctant to continue as a twisted expression on Ed's face indicated his utter disgust at even being trained by the same people as Tucker. "Once we get the knife, we should have a firm case."

Ed didn't want to think about it, but forced himself for the sake of putting the bastard Tucker behind bars. "No. It's not enough and you know it. We need solid, physical evidence that they can see and pity."

"A victim." Roy looked grim, that they had a good case was good; between them they had a Master Gunner's, Captains, and the craftsman's testimony. However, what would really lock it down, get the mob on their side, would be a victim. Hughes had apparently come to the same conclusion and he volunteered to do the dirty work. He slipped out into the city after they had finished their meeting, he'd head to London by land, where his true information network would come to use.

"We will sail on the morning tide, we should have little problem reaching the Thames by the following morning tide and we can ride the surge to the docks." Hawkeye nodded and left to inform the crew that the departure time had been brought forwards and to stir Havoc into speeding up loading. Once she had gone, Edward had finished his food and was leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head.

"I'd like to drill your men tomorrow, while we're out in the Channel. I need to get a feel for how fast they can load, fire and reload. Though, we'll use wadding rather than shot." Ed's brace clicked faintly as he stretched upwards with a yawn, unfortunately for Roy, this revealed a bare inch of stomach and he almost missed Ed's request.

"Ah, yes, of course. You should probably practice with the new quantities of powder too, correct?" He was pulling some more paperwork towards himself to have something to look at other than the Gunner. Ed seemed pleased that the Captain could keep up with his thoughts,

"We'll mix it in the morning, that is, if the Bosun has got the potash?" There was a faint jibe at Mustang in that, insult the Crew, insult the Captain.

"'Don't underestimate a blonde,' I was once told. Are you saying I should rethink it?" Ed veritably bristled and it didn't help that Mustang's smirk was back in full force. "He'll have it by the end of the day. Which is more than I can say for you... two glasses of whiskey and you were out like a light!"

"Who are you calling so small he would drown in a measure of drink!?"

Roy had to admit to himself that Ed's reactions were amusing, if predictable, and he continued to goad the Gunner until he stomped out some ten minutes later.

~~~E~~~

"Lieutenant! Got a moment?" Ed flagged Hawkeye down as she made her way up the gangplank after sorting out their docking fees. She looked up from the clipboard she was carrying and raised a singular eyebrow in question. "I need to get to know the gunning crews; can you have them assemble on the fo'csle for me?"

Hawkeye was somewhat surprised that he was doing his job, given his past behaviour and the fact that he had been passed out all morning, but she nodded with a pleased expression. He only just outranked her, but this was a request she'd have no qualms obeying.

Edward spent the rest of the day talking shop with the three-man teams, rearranging some and yelling others into shape. He had them pulling the cannons back in their racks and cleaning the barrels with silver sand and tamping rods until the inner surfaces where smooth and free of soot and snarls of metal. He took some pains to impress on them the importance of a smooth barrel;

"If there's a spark in that barrel when you load, you'll blow up. If there's a bit of hot shrapnel in there when you load, you _will blow up_. If the shot flies awry because it's uneven, _I'll blow you up._"

They seemed rather convinced and made good work for the rest of the afternoon, Ed smirking evilly at them when he wasn't correcting someone's work with the aid of his 'outside voice'. In a relatively quiet moment, while the teams where finishing up their maintenance work, he took a pot of white paint, courtesy of Al, and numbered the two rows of nine cannons, fore to aft.

"Listen up, you luck-less bastards!" The nine crews gathered quickly and fell silent. "Tomorrow you'll be firing these beasts with new powder! Its stronger, louder and more deadly so you'll do as you're damn well told." There was a chorus of 'yessir's and 'aye aye's, Edwards' eye twitched visibly; that never would have been heard over high wind, let alone cannon fire. "Again!"

"YES SIR!"

He smiled appreciatively at the bellow, they had just about got the idea over the course of the afternoon and where probably ready for drilling the day after. He dismissed them, promising to put in for a round of grog that evening, much to their approval. Part of his motivation in letting them go a little early was the arrival of six large, tar-sealed barrels of Potash, which he had stacked in the powder room. He spent the rest of the afternoon closeted with his scales and apparatus.

~~~E~~~

Al helped roll a large, empty barrel across the deck to where Ed was weighing out portions of the powder additive on the rough but large cooking scales Breda had lent him. As they approached he poured the last of the greenish white powder into a paper bag. A large stack of similar ones was piled behind him and he was not looking happy.

"Will this do, Brother? It used to have biscuits in but they got 'weevil'ed , apparently." The barrel looked big enough and Ed nodded.

"It just has to be big enough to pour a powder barrel into, that'll do nicely." Most of the twenty seven members of the gun crews were busy hauling powder out of the gunner's office and the hold and looked to be nearly finished, the rest of the crew was watching with interest while they scuttled in the rigging and over the deck. The Captain was up on the poop deck, steering their way along the coast and keeping the offshore wind in the sails, he had Havoc and Fuery, the navigator, with him.

"Captain! Keep her steady and I'll have you powder done in no time!" He hauled himself up off the coil of rope he'd been perched on,

"See to your job, Gunner and I'll see to mine!" Roy called down from above with an ever arrogant tone. Ed let it pass in favour of 'playing' with his black powder.

As a burly sailor poured the powder from its barrel into the unfortunate biscuit container, Ed poured a bag of the white potash in steadily so the two streams mixed relatively evenly. It was tough work, they had to steady themselves against the roll of the waves and resist the temptation to pour all the respective powders in at once and be done with it, soon Ed and the sailor where sweating unpleasantly under the morning sun.

Once the two powders where exhausted, Ed rammed the lid on the biscuit barrel and ordered off two from the gunner crews to roll it between them to ensure it was mixed thoroughly. They didn't seem to mind, trundling up and down the deck, playfully chasing a crewmate down the port side.

"It would seem you've turned my crew into children, Gunner." At some point during the pouring, Mustang had handed off the tiller to Fuery and he was leaning against the aft mast with an amused expression.

"Heh, they won't be so playful when there are five or six rollin about at once." There was something malicious about that statement and Roy's eye twitched at the evil smile on Edwards face.

Now that he had shown them how to keep the white potash and powder granules mixing evenly Ed set the rest of the louts to mixing the thirty or so barrels with a bag of potash each. It was loud and hot on the deck, but the wind kept the heat down and stopped the air becoming oppressive. The sailors where keeping themselves amused as the rolled or poured with loud, lewd stories, most of which centred on the mad embarrassments of particular individuals.

Even the Captain joined in and had Ed laughing so hard at Havoc's expense that he could barely see. He didn't notice the bung coming out of one of the barrels. Nor did he notice the flung match from a flustered boson's latest cigarette.

The snaking trail of powder granules caught so easily. It coughed once, twice then hissed, belching white smoke.

It was the smell that alerted him. It was unmistakable and struck him with a sledgehammer blow.

"Get down," His voice was cracked and he was still out of breath from laughing, "Everyone! Get DOWN!" his yell tore through the noise and most obeyed, looking round and seeing the ominous trail of smoke. It was too close to the mouth of the barrel to do anything, Ed knew and he was hunkering down when he saw Fletcher, looking baffled. He was just standing there, holding the mugs of water he had been handing out. All around him sailors where going down, hands over their heads, even the Captain had obeyed the bellowed order, but he was just standing there.

Ed swore as the sparks disappeared into the barrel as he began to run and for a moment there was nothing. He managed a fistful of Fletchers tunic before the blast caught him and he pulled the smaller boy to his chest as the roasting air flung them into the rigging.

**TBC**

_**Authors note: **__Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! There are cookies for reviewers and brownies if you can guess who the Archbishop is. Next chapter might be a little delayed, but probably not by much, so see you all soon._


	4. Smoke

Authors note: Congrats to hyperdude for guessing who the Archbishop is, anyone want to hazard a guess as to the queen? anyway, here's the next chapter, enjoy and there will be brownies for reviewers. no, seriously, it really helps me keep it up if i get your support!

Rat-lines: Rope ladders from the mast to the sides of the ship used for climbing up into the rigging.

**Chapter four: Smoke.**

Acrid, bitter, choking, stinging, burning. Ed could think of lots of words to describe the air that he was desperately trying to draw into his lungs, he added 'stubborn' and 'mulish' to the list when said air refused to relieve the creeping blackness at the edges of his vision.

He concentrated on that mulish substance to block out the sensations from rest of his body. His left arm was still curled around a warm body that was panting reassuringly, but he didn't want to think about his right, which was a mess of sensation.

"Fletcher..." His voice was coarse with smoke and hurt his throat as it past, "Oi, you're alive, right?" He could feel the boys frantic panting against him but he needed the boy to calm down so he wouldn't kill himself with the smoke. There was a noticeable reaction and Fletcher breathed deeply enough to cough, clearing the smoke out from his throat. The wind was carrying the smoke over the deck and the boy breathed the clear air in its wake.

"Brother? Oh god... Edward!" That had to be Alphonse; that panicked use of his name told him quite a bit about how bad he looked. He was lying on his right side, with his back towards the middle of the ship and only a few feet away from one of the cannons. He tried with little success to put his senses back together but it was a string-and-glue job and did little to help him. He felt someone shift him onto their knees, his shoulders on their arm, whoever it was took great pains to keep his back off the deck for reasons as yet unfathomable to the blast-shocked Ed. Moving really _hurt_ and that was about the extent of his evaluation, that and the fact that none of his muscles would obey him.

Fletcher slipped from his grasp and his view of wooden panelling and ropes gave way to the white-on-blue of sail and sky. His head was ringing fit for Ely Cathedral and thinking was hard past the din so it took him a long time to realise that people where moving quickly around them and that orders where being shouted in familiar voices.

"Al, hey, Al. He's ok, right?" it was more of a croak than a question, but it got the point across. The ringing was fading slightly and he managed to focus on his brothers steely gray eyes. They where liquid with unshed tears that he was visibly restraining;

"Idiot-brother! You're all... and you ask about him?!" He swiped his sleeve over his face to hide the embarrassing tears, not something he'd want his new crewmates to see. "He's fine, you saved him, and he's fine." Al's voice cracked a little halfway through at the small smile that crept over Ed's face. It was an odd one, filled with relief and pain.

"My arm..." His right arm was cradled between his side and his brother's stomach and Al could feel the broken ends of spars through their clothes and a red stain was spreading along the white cotton of his shirtsleeve. "It's gonna take forever to fix..." There was amusement in Ed's broken voice and Al smiled with him even as he felt the blood begin to soak into his trousers.

~~~E~~~

Roy rolled with the explosion and the ship lurched sickeningly. He was up before the flames had cleared, fighting the ringing in his ears caused by the shockwave. Barrel staves had scythed through the air and rigging and the ship had begun to list to port, the sails pulling her around and towards the shore. The crew where lying haphazardly amongst the ropes and cannons on deck, some getting up slowly already and most of them appeared unharmed. The man who had been rolling the unfortunate barrel had been blasted off the ship and, from what Mustang had seen, the pieces where fish food. No, he wouldn't think of that. He had to get the ship sailing true, or not at all, quickly, the shore was creeping ever closer.

The rocky beaches of the south of England were killers of the unwary.

He was still taking stock and shaking off the blast when he saw Edward's bloodied back. He truly would be damned by God if He ever got wind of the words that came out of his mouth then. The gunners' shirt was in shreds around him and the skin on his back was scorched bright red and bleeding sluggishly where a piece of shrapnel had scythed past him on its way out to sea. He was visibly hunched around something and spiky blonde hair was poking over his shoulder. Fletcher? His right arm was lying along his side and was distorted, all sharp edges, with gray rope burns on the white cotton from his impact with the rigging.

Alphonse and the ships surgeon where scrambling out of the hatch beside him and Mustang pointed them wordlessly towards their brothers, the look on their faces was truly crushing. He didn't have time for sentimentality though, as much as he wanted to go to his injured crew.

"Get the sail furled! We've lost the mainsheet, at least." People began to scramble, their shock clearing in the face of clear orders. He turned to where he thought Havoc had been before the chaos had started, "Bosun, on your feet!" Havoc was white and trembling with guilt carved into his face, "You'll get your punishment later, get me a damage report, NOW." The man hauled himself to his feet and saluted before running to the front of the ship to send men up the rat-lines.

He felt a little hard pride as his blast-shocked men got up to their jobs. The remaining barrels disappeared double-time, no one needed telling after an accident like that, and already the mainsail was being hauled in as best it could. They had lost one of the mainsheets, the rope torn into useless shreds by the shrapnel, so the sail was going up unevenly and still catching the wind. Mustang could feel the ship's timbers groan in protest as the sail tried to twist the mainmast right out of its seat. He could do nothing but hope the sailors in the rigging could pull in enough of the sail as he scrambled up the ladder to the poop deck.

The navigator, Fuery, was struggling desperately with the tiller, the ship's list pulling it hard to the side.

"Fuery! Loose the tiller, but be ready to bring us to wind once the sail's furled." He looked back up at the straining billow of white that was still shrinking slowly as the small figures in the rigging hauled it in by hand. The ship lurched as the rudder deep in the water stopped turning the ship away from shore.

"Ready for jibe!" Mustangs hard, clear voice rang through the clamour. The ship was rapidly turning towards shore without the rudder fighting the effect of the sail, Mustang's jaw tightened as the rocks came into view over the bow. There was a sudden quiet, everyone waiting for the jibe, and in that moment the angry flapping of the sail ceased as they went broad side to the wind. Their momentum was still carrying them straight to the rocks, but the sail was no longer straining against the mast and the sailors where bundling it tight to its spar.

"Jibe HO!" Mustang just had time to see Alphonse hunker down over his brother before he hurtled back towards the tiller, helping Fuery to slam it hard to shore-wards. The entire ship lurched and her nose turned abruptly back eastwards, just enough that the wind caught her undamaged sails and hauled her forwards once more. The tiller jerked hard in Mustangs grip, its polished handle bruising his ribs as the rudder, far below caught in the water and pushed them further from the waiting maw of the rocks.

Mustang realised that he was panting and leaning heavily on the tiller, Fuery slumped in a similar manner next to him. With some effort he regained his perfect posture, slapping the navigator on the back, with a wide grin on his face.

"Good work, man. Keep us true for London, we'll be running slow for a while..."

~~~E~~~

"Jibe HO!" Al tucked his head in, one hand tight on his brother's left shoulder and the other gripping a cannon ring pounded into the deck. As the boat lurched sickeningly, Edwards right and bleeding arm slipped against Al's stomach causing him to arch and howl. Cold sweat pricked his skin and it felt like he couldn't breathe through the pain; something was dangerously wrong with that arm. The cold feeling of blood loss fought the raging heat of his burnt back in an unbearable swirl of ice and fire.

As the ship stilled again and Al raised his head, Ed found himself able to breathe again, drawing in the still acrid air in short and painful puffs. The motion pulled at his injuries but he refused to be drawn into the false relief of unconsciousness, he'd only find it harder to wake up again. There was a harsh ripping sound and cool air brushed over his right shoulder. Al was carefully and with great concentration shredding his shirt with one hand and his teeth, from shoulder to wrist, and exposing the broken slats of wood and brass.

Ed got a brief look at his little brothers' face and the emotional turmoil splashed liberally over it did not go unnoticed, sending a sharp twinge through Ed's chest. His brotherly protectiveness helped him fight back the pain again; enough that he could grip Al's shirt front in his uninjured fist.

"I'm alive, Al... stop looking so... damnably pitiful." He screwed his eyes shut for a second, but when they opened they were still pinpricks and he couldn't focus well. A shadow fell over his face and made seeing easier though, as he felt cool fingers on his neck.

"You look pretty pitiful yourself!" Russell Tringham's voice managed to severely irk Ed, even in a situation like this. "Don't pull that out yet... you'll just make him bleed more." Though the comment wasn't for Ed's benefit, it clarified a few things and Ed's sharp mind drew the conclusions fast enough about his condition. But, the tone did _not_ make him happy, the urge to yell and flail was really quite powerful and it was a testament to his willpower that he restrained himself. Either that or Al's abrupt twist of his wrist distracted him.

His brother apologised just _before_ he made the movement, but that did little to prevent the pained and outraged yell that Ed emitted. It was a necessary evil, however, and it eased the pain in his arm a little, once the searing agony had faded. He assumed that Al was getting the damn brace off, but he couldn't be sure that his poor, innocent brother hadn't picked up a vindictive streak from the evil and unfortunately-height-advantaged Tringham. Scratch that, the look on Al's face showed that he had eyes for his brother only.

Next thing Ed knew was that his shirt was yet again getting ripped and a long ribbon tied tightly around his bicep in a tourniquet. It was _not_ comfortable and he let it be known loudly, with a few choice words aimed at the sky, but meant for the surgeon.

"Ed, bite this." He had very little warning, a wad of twisted cotton was shoved between his teeth, and he snapped them shut in the vague hope that he'd get someone's fingers. 'Bite this' was damned good advice; the surgeon was beginning to pull the shattered piece of wood out of his forearm. Again, _not_ comfortable. In fact, so _un_comfortable that Ed found himself gasping without drawing any air, his back arched and his teeth clamped so hard together that that his jaw creaked, even with the gag.

It made an unpleasant sucking noise as it came out of his wasted muscles; something that he was not likely to forget quickly, and it was the last thing he heard before slipping into a dark and sensation-less place.

Al used a choice word from Ed's wide and varied repertoire as his brothers head lolled limply over his forearm; trust Ed to put up with enough pain to knock him out and not even scream. He held his brothers limp shoulders tightly in place as Russell bound the wound, trying to slow the thick flow of arterial blood that had been held back by the spar jammed in the wound. He could feel the worry etching deep lines into his face as Ed's skin greyed with blood loss and shimmered sickly with sweat.

A heavy hand on his shoulder jerked him out of his downward spiral and he looked up. Mustang was silhouetted against the sky but Al could still see the deep frown on his face.

"Tringham, report!" He barked, his eyes flicking over the downed crewmen. Fletcher seemed to be fine, his brother wouldn't have left him alone otherwise, but Ed was another matter and the Captains frown deepened further.

"He's alive, and he was talking. No head injuries are apparent, but he's lost a lot of blood and he's got serious burns." The surgeon didn't stop his treatment for a moment while he spoke, trying to keep Ed's blood in long enough to get him below decks and sewn up.

"Al, get to the infirmary and set up what needs setting up, we'll get him down to you in a moment." Mustang knelt down opposite him and made eye contact, trying to give Al the most serious and reassuring look he could. After a moment the surgeons' boy took a deep, fortifying breath and nodded.

"Yessir, thank you." He gently shifted his brothers' shoulders onto Roy's arm and stood, scuttling off after a final glace at Ed then Mustang.

"On three, Captain..." Russell tucked Ed's arms across his stomach then returned to pressing on the wound as the Captain prepared to pick Ed up, sliding his free arms under the Gunner's knees.

"One," The Captain realised that most of the crew where watching quietly, still doing their jobs, but without a word and repeated glances at the injured Gunner.

"Two," Mustang shifted his knees, it was almost supernatural; the way Ed had gotten in with the crew so quickly.

"Three!" Mustang and the Surgeon moved together, lifting the blonde off the deck. He was surprisingly light, but Mustang could feel Ed's leg brace digging into his arm and Russell wasn't giving him any time to contemplate that fact. They moved quickly, trying to keep Ed steady as the ship rocked, and the ladder below decks gave them a little trouble but soon Mustang was laying the unconscious blonde out on his front, his injured arm out to the side on a table that Al bolted on to the side of the bench.

The two moved quickly and fairly efficiently, Al was still getting used to being on-ship but he was familiar with the infirmary set up from working onshore. It left Mustang feeling a little awkward and unsettled, he should go back above deck, he decided. And yet, he didn't want to. He was still standing beside Edward and it didn't feel right to move. The smell of distilled alcohol, still with a hint of the whiskey it had been made from, assaulted his senses and he stepped back, Russell was pouring the clear liquid onto Ed's wounds. The stuff dribbled of onto the straw covered floor, looking almost black. Roy was familiar with being treated with alcohol and it was not a good thing that Ed didn't move, didn't flinch as the burning liquid dribbled onto raw nerves.

The smell of blood, alcohol and burnt skin was a combination that was slowly turning Al green and he fumbled the catgut he was threading through a needle. His hands where pink from being scrubbed with the alcohol and they shook faintly. It was his _brother_ laying there, his _brother's_ blood darkening the straw.

"...ead. Al! Pass me the thread!" Mustang's rich voice and insistent tone broke through Al's panicky thoughts and he straightened his back.

"No sir. You'll contaminate it..." He concentrated, ignoring however rude he may or may not just have been to his captain, and got the gut threaded and snipped of the length. Moments later, the surgeon was asking for it and he was ready for him.

Mustang couldn't help his grim little smile as he watched Al pull himself together, these brothers where truly something beyond the pale. He backed off, knowing that he was needed on deck, and no longer needed here.

~~~E~~~

Ed came round slowly, to the soft sound of voices. He couldn't make out the words through the thick haze filling his senses though. He blinked slowly and deliberately, since his eyes felt like they would just slide closed again if he wasn't careful. His body felt overly warm, uncomfortably so, but when he tried to push the covers off and roll over an angry growl of pain rippled across his back. He lost the battle with keeping his eyes open and screwed them shut instead, his breath hitching in his throat.

"Brother! Try and lie still, you where burnt. Do you remember what happened?" He could feel something pleasantly cool on his forehead and he relaxed a little.

"Yeah, not forgetting that in a hurry." He opened one eye and squinted up at Al, grinning lopsidedly, "Saved the brat though, didn't I?"

"Only you, Brother. Only you." Al ran a hand through his hair, making it even more dishevelled than it had started out as. There was a soft murmur that Ed couldn't quite catch as he drifted under again for a moment but he forced himself to open his eyes when Al held something to his lips.

"Drink, Ed. You lost a lot of blood." Russell reprimanded when Ed made a face at the medicine's taste.

"Please Brother?" Al added. What could he do, faced with a surgeon and a brother? He drank slowly and reluctantly as the stuff was truly unpleasant, bitterness mixed with but not obscured by something sugary. It didn't take long to take effect and he stopped feeling like he might spontaneously combust, the pain faded a little too and his eyes drifted open again. The room wasn't rocking at all, and he recognised it as the room he shared with Al, so he figured that they must be at dock on the Thames already. The porthole still showed some daylight so he couldn't have been out long, though anything felt like too long to him.

He had a pretty clear idea about what had happened, and the Surgeon's presence told him there wasn't another wounded, besides himself. Then he recalled the man who had been rolling the barrel, who had hunkered down beside it when the cry had gone out, he wondered briefly if that counted as a sea burial or as fish food. It was an uncommonly morbid thought for Ed and left him with a foul feeling. He distracted himself with gingerly feeling out the damage to his arm;

The upper arm was covered in heavy white wrappings and felt almost numb, which he wasn't happy about, and his forearm was more lightly wrapped, down to the palm. He could tell Al was giving him time deliberately, letting him reorient himself. They both knew that these moments after waking up where confusing, that suppressing the pain was easier after they where through. He let his questing left hand rest on his stomach after a while longer and sighed;

"I broke another brace, didn't I?" He grinned to let Al know that he was on top of it, "It was the best one yet, too." Something cool brushed across his face, taking away a sticky, unpleasant feeling that he hadn't been fully aware of, and he closed his eyes as it settled over his forehead.

"The next one will be better; Drake already gave me permission to use the ships funds." Al considered that Ed would be angry if he ever found out they had drugged him back to sleep but Al reasoned that he wouldn't realise.

"Damn Cap'n, acting all high an mighty..." Ed's words slurred and he felt his thoughts fuzz over slowly, slowly enough that he almost attributed it to pain-exhaustion. Almost.

Al got a shiver up his spine as Ed's molten gold gaze flickered over him as he fell asleep, accompanied by a heavy sense of foreboding. He regretted drugging his brother, just a little, already and would no doubt regret it more soon. He shook his head, what could Ed do, anyway.

Russell seemed to have missed the episode entirely, watching Ed breathe with a heavy frown. He glanced up when the Captain slipped in through the door and some of the darkness eased, or was repressed.

"You just missed him, sir, he was sharp as ever." As a trained medic, young as he was, Russell could see the toll worry was extorting from the pirate and did what he could to ease it. "But it's best if he sleeps."

It eased Roy's mind that the Surgeon was so calm, even if he seemed to be working out his own issues. To that end, the Roy sent him to his brother, Al wouldn't leave after all and since Ed was unlikely to wake, judging from the labelled and empty powder packets on the dresser.

"Fletcher's eating, I suggest you do too. I'll keep eye out, here." He pushed Russell gently towards the door before heading to have quiet words with Alphonse. The surgeon left without complaint.

"Did he tell you about the trial?" A wordless nod from Al, "He's the core of our case; we need him if we're to put Tucker away." He rested what he hopped was a comforting hand on Al's shoulder.

"I know. He'll be there. He'd be up now, if we didn't drug him, not that it'd do him any good." His gunmetal grey eyes didn't leave his brother, not for a moment. Roy squeezed his shoulder gently before letting go and going to sit in the surgeons vacated chair, keeping his eye out as he'd promised.

"He'll still be there if you get some sleep too, you know." It was getting late and dark outside, though Al had lit a lantern that glowed with softly and kept inside light enough. The day had been visibly hard on Al, he was still wearing the same bloodstained shit and breeches and there where familiar bruise-like shadows under his eyes.

"I know." Roy hadn't expected anything else from the dedicated sibling, since he himself didn't want to leave either. His eyes drifted back to Edward with soft concern making their black depths a little warmer. Little of it showed on his face but it was there nonetheless.

He looked better for the medication Al had gotten him to drink, the fever had gone down and a little colour had returned to his usually tan face. Anything looked better than the grey skinned, limp and broken body he had carried to the infirmary, though. The image haunted him, just a little, and he deliberately locked his eyes on Ed's softly moving chest. It was strange; he'd lost crew before, people he'd worked with for years and known well, like Armstrong, people who'd wasted away from sickness, scurvy, injury. And yet he'd never felt the need to stay by them, though he had tried to bear witness to their final moments. And yet, here he sat and would remain, if he was able, despite the fact that Ed would no doubt get up tomorrow, return to his duties, be stubborn.

Perhaps it was his past, perhaps it was the fact that he was no hardened sailor... and yet. Roy could not understand it. He didn't understand it to the extent that he remained, contemplating, long after Al had fallen asleep with his head on the side of Edwards bed, with his fingers lightly touching the back of his scarred hand.


	5. Cathedral

**Chapter Five: Cathedral**

It was still early morning when the drugs wore off, dumping Ed firmly and painfully in the land of the living. He kept very still as awareness trickled back since the last time he'd woken up movement on his part had had immediate and hard-to-forget consequences. Staying still was still not a perfect solution, however, and pain managed to wheedle its insidious way across his back and down his right arm. It was bearable but undoubtedly the reason he'd woken up. Deciding to ignore it, he moved on to take stock of his surroundings.

The porthole above his feet showed a muted, predawn light that was tinged faintly green from reflections of the green, slimy surface of the quay they where moored against, low tide then. The deck was quiet, no sounds of moving feet to indicate loading or unloading cargo, but then, they hadn't come to London for paying work. They wouldn't be here for long either, if they could help it. A soft brush of air over his hand drew his attention and he shifted his head carefully to look down his right side. Al was still lying with his head on the mattress, though he had sprawled off his chair at some point and his legs where curled on the planks. His slow, sleepily breathing mouth was inches from Ed's injured hand but try as he might; Ed knew that he'd never be able to reach over that short distance. He looked so peaceful despite the little worry lines between his eyebrows, if only Ed could reach out and brush those away...

His first attempt at his brother's name came out as a croak that did little good but it was enough to wake Mustang, who was only sleeping lightly and on full alert.

"Ah, you're awake," It would seem that the Captains observation skills were especially glorious in the mornings.

"Captain? Why're you here?" Ed's second attempt at speech was better than the first but his throat felt dry and threatened to send him into a coughing fit, which did not sound like a fun option right now. Roy was shuffling himself to sit more upright, pulling himself from the dredges of a dream. It crossed his mind that he'd almost let a crew member see him asleep but that didn't seem as important right now as it might have done otherwise.

"Keeping an eye on you," It wasn't a very satisfactory answer for Ed, but he let it slide in lieu of getting something to drink,

"'m thirsty," he rasped out with some effort. His throat was sore, as he didn't doubt Fletchers was right now, too. Powder smoke was not a friendly thing. Oh, nor was bleeding out, he added to himself as he noticed the paleness of his skin, next to Al's cheek. Shuffling sounds brought his weary eyes back up to Mustang, who actually appeared to be pouring a mug of water. He still looked a little bleary-eyed from sleep and Ed almost smiled, before remembering himself.

"Alphonse," Roy touched Al's shoulder and the young man roused himself almost immediately. While Al was waking himself up, Roy sat and held the mug to Ed's mouth for him, guided by the blonde's healthy hand.

"Slowly..." Roy cautioned as Ed began to gulp the water. Golden eyes glared up at him and he frowned faintly back,

"Why, Drake. I didn't know you where capable of being a Mother Goose." The First Mate lent against the doorframe. Ed spluttered at the intrusion, pushing the water away and clearing his throat gently. Mustang's spine stiffened visibly and he put the mug down with a soft clunk. The streak of red across his cheekbones was burning and Roy's mortification only made it doubly so, he was glad that it was still largely dark. He stamped on his embarrassment ruthlessly before turning around; Hughes would never let him live a _blush_ down.

"Never let it be said that you're incapable of goosing someone... News?" He shifted out of Al's way so he could talk to his brother.

~~E~~

Al's gun-metal grey eyes where sleepy and had dark smudges beneath them, which Ed thought was just _peachy_, since his brothers bed was right there, Damnit! The hammocks' fabric hung limply from the beams, obviously un-used. Ed was Not Pleased, but had little time for the obligatory dressing down and settled for a burnished gold glare instead as Al fussed over his faintly stained bandages, peeling them back uncomfortably. Apparently he was still oozing, wonderful.

Al's warm fingers settle into the crook of his neck as he counted out Ed's heart rate against the large and unwieldy pocket watch that he carried everywhere. The pulse in Ed's wrist had long been imposable to find through the scar tissue.

"Throat hurts, go figure." His voice was less croaky but still on the bad side of fun. He refrained from saying anything about the creeping return of sensation in his arm and back, conscious of the confrontation likely to come to a head that day and trying to avoid being too drugged to be of any use.

"Russell has honey and nutmeg for that, though he said it's supposed to be mixed with milk..." Ed's blank silence was answer enough. "Never mind..."

Pleased with Al's surrender, Ed began to make the tiny shifts that would tell him the condition of his body in relation to his pain tolerance. It was merely excruciating, he would manage, and he was needed. Drake and his First Mate where having an intense conversation about that very subject, in fact.

"Her name's Rockbell, family in Belfast, came to London alone..." Ed stopped paying attention at that point, though it was intriguing that the girl came from their birth city. Al was much more interesting though, since he was changing the bandages over the puckered scar on his biceps.

He stared at the wound as the cloth pulled away cankered blood, distancing himself from the pain. At least Al hadn't got his little blue- oh, no. Damn.

Ed only just managed to grit his teeth against the horrendous burning of distilled alcohol as Al poured it down the gash from a little blue-glass bottle. His harsh breathing rattled his throat and threatened to send him into another coughing fit.

"A little warning," he paused to take a little huffing breath, "would be _nice._" The words hissed out from between his teeth, but that had little impact on his too-old for his body voice. The rough, rich grumble had Roy perking his ears from the doorway and looking over. The look of pained frustration was decidedly amusing to the Captain but more significantly, his subordinate's pain tolerance was very impressive. He would need it.

Roy turned back to his First Mate, "Is there time to get Edward and the girl time to talk before hand?"

"To get the story straight? As reassuring as that would be..." He shook his head softly. "It's not about time, it's exposure. There are too many people on Tucker's side, and it's the dangerous few who know the truth, they'd do anything to retain him as an asset." Roy hadn't expected anything else really, but it was still a disadvantage that they may well be unable to afford.

"Falman has her hidden and there are ways of getting the girl to the cathedral, we can do this." Maes' voice was firm and knowing, much like before going into battle. And this, this _farce_ was a battle, with worded swords and insult-laden pistols. Roy's smirk was hard and fierce as he clapped his closest ally on the shoulder;

"By the virtue of Queen and country, I know it." The two, confidant in their plans of action turned back to the lynch-pin of the operation, which was whining bitterly from where he lay on his stomach as Al smeared a salve that smelt strongly of wormwood over his burns.

"Ed, for crying out loud, stay STILL!" Al's long patience had nearly reached the end of its fuse and, as much as Mustang would like to compare the brothers' explosive tempers, the Captain saw the need to douse the flame.

"Master Gunner, while your antics are amusing, their comedic value lies rather in the realm of brats and squires," The remainder of the witty comment is drowned out but infuriated spluttering. The golden glare that Mustang fielded was decidedly disturbing but Ed did stop fighting his sibling. He looked back to Maes to hide the dark amusement in his eyes, which would no doubt enrage the blond further. The information specialist merely raised an eyebrow back at him. He cleared his throat gently, switching back into his Captain mask;

"A trial before God begins at the fourth hour, that leaves you three and a half to get up on deck, Gunner. Get to it. And Al, make sure he's presentable."

Ed's eyes darkened with that knowledge, three hours to get accustomed to his injuries, to learn to ignore the pain... He knew that appearances where everything in the Court, and that included showing no weakness.

~~E~~

The contingent from the ship had arrived perfectly on time, in the middle of the crowd of worshipers and had been able to choose a favourable location discretely, halfway up the long aisle. They could see the too-smug Tucker in quiet and sycophantic conversation with the Arch-Bishop, Hakuro. The brilliant sunshine lancing through stained glass held the party's immaculate dress uniforms in good stead, they where the picture of loyal, Queens men, devout in their faith. Mustang had to forcibly suppress his disdain.

The Captains sharp ears had picked up surprised mutterings in the crowd upon seeing their fabled Arch-Bishop presiding, there where lesser men for such things which were seen more commonly, however the aristocracy, men of parliament and the Queens court, seemed less surprised. The military leaders among them, a small but powerful number of Mustangs peers, looked shrewd and calculating. _Ah, they have heard something then..._

The quick glances spent no more time on Tucker and himself, however, so Roy concluded that they where unaware as to the _what_ of the up-coming confrontation. In this, the Church's desire for dramatics had worked against them; Ed's shocking revelation would find them on the back foot, with no choice but to follow Mustang's script. The powerful men in the congregation would believe that it was Shou Tucker's downfall they had been called to see.

Mustang glanced down at the blonde's by his side, Al and Russell flanking a pale and clammy Ed. The gunner had not travelled well, carriage rides where unpleasant as the best of times and his burns had screamed at every bump and jolt. Mustang had watched with his grim pride as Ed's jaw had merely tightened, even as he turned white as the belly of a dead fish. The crimson and blue light from the stained glass cast him in an ethereal glow that made Roy's chest clench with just a touch of fear that this... creature could not possibly be real, could not possibly be saving him from a lynching... he suppressed a shudder and turns forwards, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling uncomfortably.

The congregation quieted as the Arch-Bishop made his way to the pulpit, smiling benevolently and sickeningly. Any remaining noise was silenced as he raised his arms to begin Mass.

~~E~~

The sermon was heavily laced with vitriol, incendiary words that primed the congregation to unleash Judgment. But it was subtle in equal measure, revealing little of the actual "abominations" it derided. It's ending would be the pivotal moment, that time when the crowds emotions hung ready and waiting for a target upon which they could descend with righteous valour and rage.

The Arch-Bishop's voice rang out in the tense air with strength and clarity, its final syllable echoing slightly and at that moment, while Tucker smirked foolishly, Captain Drake Mustang rose from his seat and declared War.

"In the name of all that is righteous and Godly! I call his honour the Arch-Bishop to hear testimony!" The captains voice, deep and clear and silken incited a pregnant stillness, the congregation held a breath as a single entity. "I can no longer hold my peace when murder most terrible, most abominable sullies the sacrament of God!" With his words he shifted into the aisle with military crispness, the sounds of his boots on marble holding the tension. Eyes flicked between him and the Arch-Bishop, gauging his reaction. Roy's attention appeared to rest on the Altar, his face a picture of fierce loyalty to the cross, but in reality his attention focused on Hakuro and Tucker, the latter of which was looking on with a kind of dread. The Arch-Bishop had a little more self possession and kept his gaze firmly on the Captain. Only one response was open to him now, he could see the messages he had sent out to the men of power working to confirm the Captains words.

"As you stand before God, so shall you speak, let no lie sully your lips and no deception cloud your mind. May that spoken here be Truth so help us God." The ritual reply caused a ripple of excited whispers, and on the final word Mustang knelt before the alter, head bowed and eyes flicking to the side. From this vantage he could see the thickly veiled rage on the Arch-Bishop's face and smirked for his benefit,

_Got you._

~~E~~

Ed's testimony drew disgust and a consuming hatred from the congregation, his hoarse voice lending him the sound of fresh grief over his very real sorrow for Nina's death.

The Rockbell girl's account of a futile attempt to save a broken child's life and spirit drew tears and sympathy.

The potent combination filled the cathedral with roars as Hakuro proclaimed Tuckers guilt, and in the tumultuous sound, Mustang's triumph was perceived as a righteous strength.

Shou Tucker died, on the second hour of the afternoon. Four hours after Roy Mustang aimed a pistol loaded with truth at his heart.

**TBC**

**Authors Notes: **shorter chapter than previously, but it wanted to stop there. If anyone spots any mistakes please point them out in a review, ;) since I'm starting this back up after a years haiatus, (sorry about that, first year at University's a bitch ref profile if you're interested) there may be sore than usual!

I love reviewers, as do all writers. they make it easier to write. Like sugar lumps and caffene.


End file.
